


iii. motel rooms

by Lotusd



Series: SPN Advent Calendar 2020 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Drunk Sex, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Homophobia, M/M, bend-me-shape-me's SPN Advent Calendar 2020, canon but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28347531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotusd/pseuds/Lotusd
Summary: “The men in the bar, they seemed to think-“ Why can’t he just say it? “They took a disliking to me.”“In the time it took me to piss? Jeez, Cas, what did you do? Fuck their wives?”“Quite the opposite actually, they thought I- That we are involved.”Dean chokes on his tongue. “They- They thought- That- That we're-“ He motions between them. A thousand facial expressions cross his features and none of them are in the normal Dean Winchester vocabulary. “Wow. Why? Why would they, uh, would they think that?”On a hunt, Dean and Cas spend the evening unwinding in a bar next to their motel. When a bunch of homophobes chase them out after getting the wrong end of the stick, they end up back in their room, only them and a big rainbow elephant for company...
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: SPN Advent Calendar 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076003
Comments: 16
Kudos: 235





	iii. motel rooms

**Author's Note:**

> Another one inspired by the [SPN Advent Calendar Prompts](https://bend-me-shape-me.tumblr.com/post/635594995196461056/hello-everyone-a-couple-weeks-ago-i-had-the)! Not very festive, but set during the festive season... even though Christmas is now over lol. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://bidean-byedean.tumblr.com)!

It may be a the latest shitty motel in an endless line of shitty motels, but at least it has a working A/C and bed that actually gives under his back when Dean lies down on it. Sure, Baby is his pride and joy but she’s old and Dean is old and climate change is real. So, yeah, it’s shitty, but it’s a room that isn’t his car and that’s enough for Dean.

And if it’s good enough for Dean, it’s good enough for Cas. For all his complaining, at least Cas never has an issue with the physical demands of the job, not like Sam, who never misses a chance to lecture Dean about DVT and RSI and anything else that has a neat little three-letter-acronym. Not that his lack of nagging is the reason that Dean likes doing hunts with just Cas. They just get on, you know? A few hiccups here and there, but they’ve always got each other, and now, they’re just as a formidable hunting duo as Sam and Dean are. Claire would say they _vibe,_ which Dean actually quite likes. It certainly sounds less insane than they have _a profound bond_ or however Cas put it, but it still has allusions to the cosmically absurd aspect of their friendship.

“Bar?” Dean asks clapping his hands loudly. “You could use a drink.”

Cas squints at him. “You know that alcohol has very little-“ But Dean is already heading out of the door without bothering to wait for the sarcastic comment.

They don’t even have to drive anywhere because there’s a place in the lot next to the motel that is exactly what Dean is looking for. It doesn’t appear to be open, but Dean pushes through the door with the confidence of a guy who knows he’ll fit in anywhere. Cas hurries in behind him, looking around at all of the faces that have turned their way with all of the self-consciousness that Dean lacks. 

Dean leans on the bar and grins at the bartender, thankfully a woman, just slightly older than him. “Evening ma’am, two of whatever bottles you got going.”

“No problem,” she nods at Dean but glances at Cas uneasily.

They drink in silence. Cas unable to switch off, picking at the damp label and shifting in his seat, he stares at the sad tinsel taped up along the shelves behind the bar. He'd forgotten that it is now December, which meant Christmas. They had never paid that much attention to the holiday, Sam and Dean usually made sure they were working a case or at least travelling on the day itself. At first they were surprised that Cas wasn't more into it, until he reminded them that Christmas, meaning the 25th of December, actually had very little to do with Jesus' birth and was merely a date appropriated from the Pagan festival of Yule when Christianity was being forced upon the Celts. He did enjoy the decorations though. 

“For God’s sake, man,” Dean suddenly says. “Can you take the stick outta your ass for like, five seconds?”

“We’ve been over this, Dean, there is _no-“_ But he stops abruptly because Dean is pulling his clothes off - more specifically he’s taking his trench coat off, but the general statement still stands. Cas takes over when it’s clear that Dean is not going to get off of his arms, and the Hunter sits back, grinning.

“Wait,” he leans back in and undoes Cas’ top button. The cotton of his shirt feels extremely thin, Dean can feel the heat of Cas’ skin through it, and fumbles clumsily with the little pieces of plastic. “Now you don’t look like a fed… much.”

Cas sighs loudly, his side-eye sharper than any of the knives in Baby’s boot. “What does it matter?”

“Don’t feel like getting jumped,” Dean shrugs, his head rolling subtly in the direction of a table of men who are watching them with open contempt. “Want another one?”

He doesn’t wait for Cas to answer. It seems to be a pattern tonight; Dean is on a mission, moving through decisions and ideas and sentences like a shark, afraid of what will happen if he leaves enough breathing space for Cas to actually engage in conversation with him. He talks about the hunt, about the victims, about Sam being out west with Eileen, about the motel, about the bar, about he silent football match on the fuzzy tv. Cas is a celestial being and he’s barely able to keep up with all the topics and references and allusions that Dean manages to cover between sips of his drink.

Bottles collect quickly in front of them. Somehow, Dean doesn’t realise that Cas is still nursing his second one and he’s been drinking both of their drinks for some time. He gets louder and more obnoxious. His hand landing heavily on Cas’ shoulder after almost everything he says; sometimes it stays there for a long time afterwards, until he drags it away suddenly like he’s been burnt. He doesn’t notice how the angel sighs every time. Cas doesn’t even notice it himself.

Inevitably, Dean has to drag himself away to the restroom, heavy-footed and more bow-legged than usual as he disappears through the bar into the darkness of the back.

“Hey, you and your _pal_ should probably cool it before you start some shit, alright?” The bartender looks at him with a hard stare that he can’t quite read. “It’s not that kinda bar.”

“I don’t understand,” he frowns. “I know my _pal_ -” he repeats the word with the same intonation that she did to see if that helps the situation. “-has had a lot to drink, but we mean no trouble.”

Whether because of his genuine confusion or her own lack of conviction in what she’s saying, she softens. “Just the guys are clocking onto you, so probably best to head off soon, okay?”

Cas nods like he understands what she means. When he looks over to the men who occupy the tables in the middle of the bar; all that’s missing from their fort is a flag planted in the middle to mark their territory. The message clear: outsiders not welcome. They’ve been watching Cas and Dean since they entered, but lots of local bars are like this; kept afloat by a regular crowd, supplemented by a steady stream of transient strangers who must wander in from the motel like they did. And Cas is used to be perceived as different by humans, they somehow sense that he is Other and often they do not react to it well. Although, Dean would say that’s because his “people skills” are “rusty.”

While waiting for Dean, he finally finishes the beer that he’s been pretending to drink for the past three hours. He knows that it is warm from his touch and mostly flat, but he can’t _taste_ what that like, he just knows that is it. Someone taps on his shoulder and Cas spins expecting Dean. It is not Dean. It’s one of the men; a guy a bit older than Jimmy is now, greying in his rough stubble, adorned in a permanent baseball cap and ill-fitting shirt stretched over his beer belly. He’s even drunker than Dean.

“Can I help you?”

He seems surprised by Cas’ voice and its preternatural grumble. “Yeah, you can get the fuck outta here.”

Heckles up immediately, Cas tries to contain himself. This is a human, an asshole, but just a human. “My partner is just in bathroom and then we’ll leave.”

Apparently he said something wrong.

“Knew it,” the guy spits, storming in closer. “Fucking queers coming into _our_ bar and thinking we just have to put up with it.”

In the blink of an eye, he pulls his fist back and throws a badly aligned punch that Cas easily evades. He ducks out of the way, side-stepping out of his reach, even though it would hurt him more than Cas if he actually landed a hit, it wasn’t worth the drama of it. The guy stumbles towards Cas, enraged with his impotency, and tries to go for a good old fashioned tackle. Thankfully he’s wasted and it doesn’t take any unusual skill to keep out of range, so instead, he picks up too much momentum and crashes into a table hard enough to go flying over it. Unfortunately, that apparently signals war.

The rest of the men stand from their seats, bloodlust in their eyes as they glare at Cas.

“Gentlemen, there’s really no need for this,” Cas says calmly, his palms up in surrender. “I don’t want to fight anyone.”

The man who seems to be the leader has a cruelty in his eyes that makes Cas feel cold. As he considers his options, a glint of light catches his attention and he notices the man slip brass knuckles onto his hands with a cool, practiced subtlety that confirms him as a different class of dangerous. He stalks slowly around the table, looking Cas up and down with more intrigue than pure hatred; Cas would almost class it as a curiosity or appreciation when his eyes go downwards.

“But freaks like you, you gotta learn you can’t just go wherever you like, flashing your perversity for everyone to see.”

“No, you’re wrong,” he finds himself saying panicked. They were wrong because Cas is careful around Dean, he wouldn’t dare slip up, especially not in front of people. “We aren’t-“

But there’s no point in trying to reason with these men, they’ve scented blood in the water and now they want their prize. Of course, Cas could immobilise all of them in a second, but that would just draw attention to him and Dean, and ruin their hunt. So, he runs. Thankfully, Dean is still doing whatever it is that’s taking him so long, but it gives them an out.

Cas darts through the bar and into the dingy bathroom, where he sees Dean leaning against the sink, his face dripping with water, his eyes red and unfocused.

“Cas? What the Hell are you-“

It’s Cas’ turn to not let Dean speak. He claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder and spreads his wings, instantly transporting them from the bar to their motel room. When they land, Dean’s knees give way and Cas catches him instinctively, holding him close until the hunter’s head stops spinning. They’re warm against each other. Hearts beating hard. Panting from the adrenaline of the moment. He helps Dean to the bed, keeping a hand on his back long after the need for support is gone; if Dean registers it, he doesn’t protest.

‘You gonna explain?”

He sighs. “The men in the bar, they seemed to think-“ Why can’t he just say it? “They took a disliking to me.”

“In the time it took me to piss? Jeez, Cas, what did you do? Fuck their wives?”

“Quite the opposite actually, they thought I- that we are involved.”

Dean chokes on his tongue. “They- They thought- That- That we’re-“ He motions between them. A thousand facial expressions cross his features and none of them are in the normal Dean Winchester vocabulary. “Wow. Why? Why would they, uh, would they think that?”

Cas shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak, he can’t. They’re so close. Both perched on the end of the bed, Cas’ hand still on Dean’s back protectively, their legs spread wide so their knees press against each other; the distance between their faces somehow far less than it should be.

‘Personal space, Cas,” Dean whispers. “We’ve, uh, talked about this Probably why they thought-“ But he trails off, his eyes drifting towards Cas’ lips. Pink and parted slightly. His tongue peeks out over his bottom lip, teasingly, as if reminding Dean that he does have a tongue, that he could _do things_ with that tongue. Things that they might enjoy. “You okay?”

Cas nods. His eyes are burning, pupils wide and cheeks flushed. Is it hot in here? Dean is hot. Cas is hot- _oh God_. Dean becomes acutely aware of where they’re touching: the burning handprint on his shoulder, the weight of Cas’ actual hand splayed across his back. The hard points of their kneecaps. The softness of their thighs as they move closer. When did they start moving closer? Who went first? But Dean’s head is swimming with alcohol and lust; _god,_ he’s horny. Even sober, he would’ve struggled to recall the last time he’s gotten off with anyone other than his right hand and _Casa Erotica_ ’s wonderful roster of talent. But that doesn’t mean anything, it certainly has nothing to do with the feeling in his gut as he finds himself drawn into Cas.

They brush their noses against each other, testing each other’s resolve before they commit, giving each other one last chance to stop this madness. Then their lips meet and it’s over. Warm and soft, it’s almost chaste, could be described as sweet had someone witnessed it, full of tenderness and nervous energy. They pull apart and breathe heavily for a moment, letting the weight of the silence bare down on them, until Dean lunges forward again. The enthusiasm is appreciated, even if it means their teeth clash painfully at first contact, but it’s easily ignored. Their kiss is hard and deep, and Cas bring his hand up to cradle Dean’s face, and Dean fists Cas’ shirt like he’s afraid that the angel will try to leave. It’s sloppy and clumsy, their tongues slipping over each other like inexperienced teenagers. Which they kind of are here. It’s so new and alien and Dean wants so desperately for it to feel wrong, he tries hard to tap into the reservoir of repulsion he’s used as protection for so long, but it’s gone dry.

Nothing has ever felt as right as kissing Cas does, even though his technique is sorely lacking and they’re both still dressed and they’re _still both dudes_ , it’s fucking incredible. Dean threads his hand into Cas’ hair, something he’s imagined doing it a thousand times; usually when he’s drunk and lonely and Cas looks at him with those beautiful eyes and he imagines that he sees something in them- Guess he wasn’t imagining it after all, huh?

“Cas, wait,” he manages to pull away with the last semblance of his common sense. “What are we doing?”

Cas looks so sad. “Do you want to stop?”

“No, God, _no._ But-” he can’t believe he’s blushing about this. “How far is this gonna go?”

It doesn’t click immediately, not until Dean’s eyes dart towards the rest of the bed. “Oh. I don’t- I want anything you want, Dean.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Anything?”

Cas nods eagerly, pulling Dean back in so he kiss his neck and jawline, his tongue running across the sharp stubble, the molecules of _Dean_ dancing across his tastebuds. “Everything.”

“You wanna go all the way with me, Cas?” Dean jokes, grinning that lopsided smile that’s broken hearts up and down the country. “Swipe your v-card at my register?”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

Dean rolls his eyes but it doesn’t cover up his blush. “You’ve- You’ve never, you know, done it with a guy before, right?”

“ _It_ being a euphemism for sexual intercourse?”

He swallows _hard_. “Yeah.”

“Then no, I have not done _it_ with _a guy_.”

“Neither. I mean, once, I’ve done it once, but I didn’t- I did the- Not the- you know.”

Cas blinks at him incredulously. Does this man ever _just say what the fuck he means?_ “Dean, are you trying to tell me that you’ve penetrated another a man, but have not been penetrated?”

“God, I hate when you translate stuff like that.”

“It’s just sex, Dean.”

He chuckles darkly at Cas’ simplicity. “Is that what you want? Just sex? We fuck tonight and never talk about it again? And swear it’ll never happen again every time it does?” He clenches his jaw. “I can do that.”

Cas’ runs the back of his fingers against Dean’s cheek, so much affection in the simple gesture that it makes Dean’s stomach tighten uncomfortably, but he can’t resist leaning into it. “I can do that too, but-”

Whatever is meant to come after the ‘but’ disappears into Dean’s mouth, his kiss fierce and demanding, it refuses to engage with the future. It’s selfish and it’s all that Dean can cope with.

Clothes are a nuisance at the best of times, all those tiny buttons and restrictive seems and stiff zippers, but there’s something thrilling about fumbling with someone else’s clothes. Cas almost tears Dean’s jeans in his impatience, which makes the human laugh. Who knew the enjoyment you could get watching a wave of celestial intent shoved inside an accountant be unable to deal with a button because he’s too horny. Because he wants to fuck Dean that much.

Dean hooks his fingers under Cas’ chin and pulls him up into a kiss, enjoying the way Cas boxes him in, his strong arms planted either side, his heavy legs tangled between Dean’s. They kiss gently this time, soothed by the knowledge that more is coming, that they don’t have to get everything they can as fast as they can before it’s pulled away. He shimmies out of his jeans, kicking them to the end of the bed without even breaking their kiss.

“Show off.”

Both stripped down to their underwear it’s hard to ignore the reality of the situation, that Cas and Dean and their very male bodies are pressed against each other and that they _like_ it. Dean actually wasn’t sure if Cas got aroused; he’d never caught him having alone time or anything in all the years they’d been together, so he assumed he just didn’t need it. No wonder he kisses like he’s going to eat Dean’s face off, the poor guy’s got the bluest balls in the history of mankind.

It’s rough: their stubble, their hands, their touches, their kisses, the motel sheets; nothing is gentle. They fight each other other, hair pulling and biting lips and grabbing handfuls of flesh, the upper hand slipping between the two of them as they try to find a rhythm. Someone turns the lamp off, letting the harsh light be replaced by the orange slashes of streetlamps coming through the half open blinds. Cas looms over Dean, his hair wild, half his face illuminated with the artificial fire, and _there_ , there in his eyes is the softness that they had been missing.

Dean sits up and kisses him. Slowly. Carefully. His hand ghosts down Cas’ body until he finds his cock, so hard, hot to the touch, and he strokes it. The angel inhales sharply, his hips bucking in immediately, but Dean doesn’t speed up, keeps his eyes trained on Cas’ to watch every expression as he works him.

“You’re bea- you’re so hot.”

“ _Dean.”_

It makes no sense that he’s reluctant, they’ve gotten this far, why is Dean still trying to pretend like he could wrangle his way out of calling this what it is? Like he could face the sunlight in the morning and say that this is just what friends do when they’re keyed up and need a helping hand. A helping hand. He almost laughs. Sure, they could’ve shared a drunken hand job and left it at that, but it’s not that anymore; not when Cas is on top of him like this, not when they’ve kissed like that, not when he wants, _need_ s, to look Cas in the eye while they do this.

“Down,” he commands, rolling Cas onto his back. He trails kisses down his chest, experimentally teasing his nipples - not as sensitive to it as Dean is, but he still arches into the touch appreciatively. Dean tastes every inch of him, following the curve of his ribs and the lines of muscle and the jut of his hipbone and the firm flesh of his thigh. He takes Cas’ cock into his hand and runs his tongue along the length and the angel shudders. “Ever had this before? Am I the first?”

“You’re the only one.”

“Good.”

He swallows the cock head, sucking on the soft, swollen flesh with more vigour than he should, overstimulating Cas from the offset. The rewards are immediate: a sharp pull of his hair, nails dig into his shoulder, a breathy groan. Exactly his plan. There’s a fight to keep Cas’ thighs apart, to keep his hips on the bed so he doesn’t choke Dean, so he can actually get the job done, but Dean is more than pleased with the fact that Cas is coming undone under his touch. He whimpers when Dean teases the very tip with his tongue, softly, barely touching it; and when takes him deep, swallowing hard around him; and when he adds a teasing finger to the sensitive skin behind his balls.

“I- I think- I might-“

“Want me to stop?”

Cas’ brain is entirely too overloaded for that question. _No!_ He’s never wanting anything less than for Dean to stop devouring him, to not finish the show between his thighs starring his lips, full and wet enough to glisten in the half light. But he also wants more. He knows that Dean wants more.

“Tell me what _you_ want.”

A thousand images flash across Dean’s mind, only a fraction of the things that he wants, barely scratching the surface of the things they could do. But very few of those are possible right now. He gets up without warning and Cas makes a noise of protest at being left alone, somehow forgetting that he and Dean would have to stop touching each other _at some point_. By the bright light of his phone torch, Dean rummages through his bag, throwing shit on the floor like he’s not the one who’ll have to pick it all up.

“Bingo,” he grins, holding up a small, clear bottle. “Close call. You okay?” He notices Cas’ expression, unable to look away from the bottle. He sits on the bed heavily. “Is this too much? Fuck, I thought- We can do something else-“

Cas puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, _that_ shoulder; his warm, living handprint crossing over the marred skin of the brand. The sounds of a TV come faintly through the wall. A car roars to life in the parking lot. Someone walks past the window, throwing a brief shadow over them. All reminders that they do not exist within a vacuum, that whatever happens in this motel room, it will leave with them, and they cannot run from that.

His mouth is warm and soft against Dean’s back. It seems to be the best way to soothe the hunter and Cas wonders if he’ll allow it in the sunlight. Or if they’ll go back to only touching each other when one of them is bleeding.

“Dean, I-“

“Say it.” The growl makes Cas recoil. An almighty angel and even he knows to cower when a Winchester raises his voice. “I’m sorry. You have to say, Cas, because I-“

_I’m a coward. A lie wrapped up in denim and flannel. Fifty layers of fucked up, like a jawbreaker of pretence. And every time my name is your mouth, you wash away another layer and eventually everyone is gonna see the core, the truth that I buried so deep I thought it could never hurt me, but it turned into a burden so heavy I feel it every time my heart beats, cloaked in shame, suffocating everything else, and it became part of me. It’s all part of me.You don’t want that. Don’t say you want that because you deserve better. I can’t cope with you wanting me because you shouldn’t. But if you say it then maybe, maybe I can be brave. Just give me permission to stop being a coward and maybe I’ll surprise you, surprise myself. Maybe I’m not as broken and useless as I thought, and maybe if you say it, because_ you have to say it _, then we can start a new, you can breathe life into us instead of just Dean and Cas, it’ll be us. Say it Cas, say it so I don’t have to because I can’t choose this for myself; I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-_

“Fuck me, Dean.”

It’s the filthiest thing Dean has ever heard. An angel of the Lord kneeling on a bed in a cheap motel in a forgotten corner of the USA, asking, _begging_ , a man who used to torture souls in Hell to fuck him. If they had any doubts about how far they had strayed from God’s light, this is the damning confirmation. There’s no coming back from this. But when Dean faces Cas, looks into his eyes, he doesn’t see anything sinful there. Facing away from the light, Cas’ eyes should be dark, but they shine up Dean; bright and blue and _holy_.

_Fuck me._

Selfish. Unworthy. The very touch of you corrupts.

_Fuck me._

Riteous. Blunt. Soldier.

_Fuck me._

Fallen. Broken. Traitor.

_Fuck me._

If Castiel is the shield of God. If Dean Winchester is the Sword of Michael. If they were truly made only for battle, then the way they touch each other is blasphemy of the highest order. Dean’s fingers push inside of Cas tenderly, his hand no longer a weapon, but an instrument of affection, of pleasure; Cas’ resistance falls away, his defences well and truly breeched. But this is not a battle, there is nothing to fear from their softening, from their vulnerability. Cas murmurs constant praises and directions and exclamations, he fills the silence as Dean fills him, like music, setting the tempo that they dance to. His human brain sparks like a lightning storm when the right places are touched, his nerves are frayed against _too much too much too much_. But he never taps out. He gives more. He offers himself up like communion.

_Talk to me._

_More more more more._

Closer. Their sweat mixes, Earthy alchemy; skin on skin, heaven on hell, life on immortality. Built and unbuilt and rebuilt. Dean crowds in on Cas as he finally enters him, his forehead pressed against Cas’, breathing in Cas’ gasps, stilling until the tension of the initial discomfort eases away. In the cage of their arms, locked around each other like bars, there’s nothing else. There’s no world outside of them. There’s no disapproving God watching. There is nothing else in life except this. The Shield and the Sword. Made for each other. To fight the world and protect each other.

Their names become prayers, spiritual refrains that punctuate the carnal story, that signal moving towards the end. It can’t end. Not yet. Dean would live and die here, buried inside of Cas, fucking into his tight body that grips around him, that squirms and writhes and pants _for_ him. He sucks bruises into Cas’ throat as the angel moans; he winces as nails dig into him hard enough to break skin. Cas regards the red liquid on his fingertips for a moment before sucking them clean while he stares in Dean’s eyes, and it nearly pushes him over the edge. Dean is used to being viewed for consumption, objectified, desired, sexualised, but no one has ever wanted him so wholly before. There is no part of Dean that Cas rejects; not his broken body, not his tainted soul, not his cursed blood, not his destructive love.

_“_ Wanna make you come, wanna feel it,” Dean murmurs quietly, quickly. His fist wraps tightly around Cas’ cock, moving in tandem with his thrusts, adding to the choir of wet, filthy sounds. “ _Castiel.”_

Jerking into Dean’s hand, Cas climaxes suddenly and ferociously as his name, his full, God given name, rolls off of Dean Winchester’s tongue and onto his own. All of the lights in the room illuminate and smash; the TV screeches with static before falling to pieces; the streetlights become supernovas and collapse in on themselves; screams come from every direction. But the only thing Dean can hear as he orgasms is Cas, his arm tight around Dean’s neck, his mouth next to his ear, his worshipping words urgent and breathless.

They fall asleep tangled in the damp sheets, neither of them able to pay attention to the chaos going on just outside of their door. Tomorrow they would find out that everything electrical within a five mile radius had burnt itself out, and be thankful that they were out in the middle of nowhere, the nearest hospital mercifully saved from their destructive union. Was it poetic? Was it fitting? Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. The world had asked him to die for it, to break himself down, to hate himself over and over and over, does he not deserve a love that leaves its mark back?

\--

Cas leans against the Impala, squinting in the bright winter sun at something in his hands. He packed up the car while Dean checked out; their case neatly wrapped up, the monsters slain. Business as usual.

“Whatcha got there?” Cas holds up a second room key. “I just had to pay the fee for losing that, Cas!”

He drops his gaze. “I wanted to keep it.”

“Why?”

When Cas look at him, he knows why.

“I believe you call them mementos,” he says anyway.

Dean glances around before moving in, pressing his body against Cas’. “Wanna collect one from every state?”

“Every county.”

He laughs, the sound warmer than the sun, sweeter than birdsong. “Deal.”


End file.
